


Visage

by joshie124



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adoptive Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Manipulation, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Memory Loss, Mind Manipulation, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Panic Attacks, Protective Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Hatred, Sleepwalking, Soft Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-23 10:34:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joshie124/pseuds/joshie124
Summary: “It’s just a boy,” Phil said quietly. Techno looked the child over again. Now that it was quiet, it seemed so gentle. Peaceful. “The storm is coming in fast. He’ll die out here if we leave him.”“It’s a risk,” Techno muttered, fixing his grip on the axe.“I thought the same about you,” Phil said, looking back at Techno. They locked eyes. Techno looked away first.***Living peacefully in the tundra with little issue, Technoblade and Philza prepare for a winter storm when they hear a dreadful wail emanating from the forest. What they find is a boy, a hybrid they've never seen before, injured and in need of help. But this boy is being haunted by more than old injuries, and the door has been opened for chaos to return, weaving its path through unlikely people. With the future and balance of this world resting in their hands, all Techno and Phil truly care about is saving this newest addition to their family.
Relationships: Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Technoblade, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 396





	1. Prologue

Perhaps he considered himself an adventurer, a scavenger, a worker. Perhaps he was curious, or perhaps he was driven. Perhaps he had a name, or a family, or a purpose – but in the end, in his final moments, the only choice that truly mattered was this one, in which chaos was reintroduced to the world. 

He had sealed his fate the moment he touched the Eye. The cracked, fiery emerald had called out, its voice as smooth as the sea, promising power, knowledge, glory. It spoke with the voice of a god. It wasn’t his fault he fell for it. It could have been anyone. So he reached for it, held it in his hands, let the icy gaze of the ancient eye wash over him.

This was his first mistake.

The second was his uselessness. 

The voice of the Dreamon is persuasive. It promises, and it lies, and it tricks, and in its wake the rules of gods and men fall away into void until all that is left is tortured souls. But now, banished between worlds, its only task is to find its way back. 

It wasn’t this man’s fault he couldn’t serve this purpose. Still, the more he knew, the more risk there was to limit the Dreamon’s reach. 

At least he was obedient.

When told to jump, he did. 

Now all the Dreamon needed was a new mind to influence, a mind that could work to free it from the Void it inhabited. A link between worlds. 

This was the start of a new undoing.


	2. Before the Storm

“We’ll need to replace this one soon,” Technoblade called over his shoulder.

“Why’s that?”

In lieu of a response, he turned to Phil and stuck his hand through the tear in the tarp. The coarse canvas had lasted a long while, but now it frayed at the edges and was worn thin by the many storms it had protected against. 

“Ah,” Philza nodded. “Nothing that can’t be sewn up.” Techno looked down at the fabric, wondering if they were looking at the same tarp. Philza took a corner and walked it over to the edge of the beet patch, pinning it down to cover the green leaves. 

A storm was rolling in. Over the trees, the sky was dark, swelling with clouds and obscuring the far forests with snow. Techno sighed, pinning down his side of the tarp as well. Storms weren’t an issue so much as an inconvenience. It meant more work, ushering all of the animals back into their barns, covering crops so they wouldn’t freeze and die, fixing any damaged structures after the storm passed. Preparing for these blizzards was simply part of the deal living in the tundra, but it was a welcome trade off for the benefit of living completely unbothered. 

Though, storms had an added discomfort for Technoblade particularly. For safety and ease, he and Phil stayed together during storms rather than in their own respective cabins, and since Phil’s had the majority of emergency supplies, that means Techno had to give up the comfort of his own space and privacy. 

Not that he didn’t like Phil. It was quite the opposite, actually. Philza was one of the few people in this world that he could bear to be around. But that didn’t mean he didn’t value his time alone. Maybe this one would be short. 

“I’ve got the potatoes. You go see that the cows have enough water,” Philza said. Techno nodded, trudging off to check on the barns that lay on the edge of the forest. As he drew closer, he noticed a low howl. Sometimes when the wind whipped through the trees, it made a sound like a wolf’s cry… but there was no wind now. He turned to face the forest, the sound humming dully in the back of his skull. It was almost like it was vibrating inside of him like sound trapped in a bell. 

He shook his head, stepping into the barn where the sound quieted. The cows nudged at his hands as he checked their water troughs, huffing as he pushed them aside to throw hay down to insulate the floor. They were cramped, but they’d be fine. 

When he stepped outside, the sound was still there. 

It made his ears twitch, building a strange feeling of discomfort under his skin. He faced the woods. Something was out there, something he felt uneasy about. One hand on his axe, he began to walk through the trees.

Despite his bulky stature, he moved silently through the snow, a natural hunter, well versed in these parts by now. With each step he took, the howl grew slowly louder. It was low and gravely, and Techno would have easily written it off as the sound of wind if the air hadn’t been so still. As he walked, though, it became layered, as if a second cry was being added to the chorus. This one was higher, sharper, more… human. 

Technoblade wasn’t one to startle easily. He had nerves of steel, even in the most difficult of challenges. But despite that, despite his strength and self assuredness, this sound made his hair stand on end. It felt like a warning. More than that. It felt like a broadcast of pain. Of agony. 

There was a creature standing in the snow. It was like nothing Techno had ever seen before, and that was saying something. 

It was tall, boney, one half dark as night and the other blinding white like the snow. It held its head in its hands, clawed fingers digging deep into its temples and drawing forth trails of shimmering purple blood. It had a tail, whipping furiously behind it, the feathered tip making whistling sounds as it flew through the air, or rustling as it wrapped and unwrapped itself from the thing’s body. 

The wail emanating from its open mouth struck dread into Technoblade’s heart. The sound wasn’t natural. It was as if it was moving directly from the creature’s mind into his, with no sound lost between them. 

This was something that needed to die. 

Something that begged to die. 

He drew his axe.

An arm across his chest blocked his path. He hadn’t heard Phil approach over the wailing of the creature, but it was clear by the look on his face that where Technoblade felt dread at the creature’s howl, Philza felt sympathy towards it. 

In the end, he supposed, that had always been the difference between the two of them. 

Philza stepped forward, and Techno put a hand on his arm, a silent reminder to be cautious. Philza ruffled his wings, acknowledging this as he moved through the snow. Even though Techno had stopped moving towards the thing, the wail grew louder, piercing almost painfully through the air. He heard Phil call out, his voice nearly overpowered by the howl, but his call got no reaction from the creature. 

As Techno looked closer at the thing, though, he began to realize why Philza had stopped him from killing it immediately. The creature wasn’t merely a mindedness mob like those that he had hunted before. It was dressed in tattered clothes, dirty and drenched. Its bare feet were bloodied, leaving purple tracks in the snow leading off a ways behind it before it had stopped here to scream, but its hands and feet were human despite the sharp claws. It had messy hair, a sharp jaw, a face that was familiar. 

A hybrid. Just like Techno. Just like Phil. 

And Techno had almost murdered it where it stood.

He pushed aside the pang of guilt as Philza called out to the creature again, stepping closer. The wind in the forest began to pick up. Techno glanced at the sky, noting the clouds beginning to move in. They needed to get inside before the storm started. It was easy to get lost out here, easy to be buried. Philza reached out a hand, but thought better of it, pulling back. Instead, he reached out the tip of one wing, cautiously bringing it around until it brushed up against the creature’s shoulder.

The cry stopped abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. 

“Hello?” Philza said softly, leaning forward ever so slightly. The creature moved its hands slowly. Purple blood coated its fingers, dripping down its temples. It lifted its head. 

It was a child. 

The harshness of its boney frame was in direct opposition to the creature’s soft face, eyes wide and large, set above high cheekbones. It kept its gaze low, letting its arms fall to its sides. It’s tail stilled its rapid thrashing, falling limply against the snow. The wind whipped through the trees once again, billowing Techno’s cape up around him and ruffling through Philza’s wings. The silence left in the absence of the cry was almost more unsettling than the cry itself. 

“Hello?” Philza tried again. “Are you alright?” The creature flicked its gaze up from where it had fixated on the ground, and Techno watched as Philza stiffened instantly. They were locked in each other’s gaze. It eyes, one green, the other a crimson red, trembled, glowing as light bounced off of them from the surrounding snow. A new sound began echoing from the creature’s chest, not quite a cry, but a groan, building slowly. 

“Phil?” Techno called. He gripped his axe tighter. Philza didn’t move. The thing didn’t either. “ _ Phil,”  _ he said again, stepping towards the man. The groan became louder, a new warning, encouraging that same dread as before. Techno needed to act now. 

With his axe held out in front of him, just in case, he grabbed onto Philza’s arm and pulled him back, ready to strike as he did. 

But he didn’t have to. 

As soon as the focus was broken between the two, there was silence once again. This time, though, the creature’s eyes flickered dimly just before it crumpled into a heap in the snow. 

The two of them just stared at it for a moment. 

Philza drew his wings in close to his back, shaking them out to release the tension that had built since this interaction started. He began to step towards the thing once more, but Techno held his grip on the man’s arm.

“You’re really thinking of going near that thing again?” Techno demanded.

“It’s a child, Techno,” Phil said, turning to face him. “A hybrid child.” 

“So? It could’ve killed you–”

“You don’t know that,” Phil shook his head, pulling his arm free from Techno.

“You don’t either.” They both stared at the creature. It breathed slowly in the snow, eyes closed. Despite its wounds almost as if it could have been sleeping. Philza knelt down in front of it, turning it onto its back.

“It’s just a boy,” Phil said quietly. Techno looked the child over again. Now that it was quiet, it seemed so gentle. Peaceful. “The storm is coming in fast. He’ll die out here if we leave him.” 

“It’s a risk,” Techno muttered, fixing his grip on the axe. 

“I thought the same about you,” Phil said, looking back at Techno. They locked eyes. Techno looked away first.

“Don’t do that,” he said softly. 

“It’s true. It’s similar, don’t you think?” Philza looked back at the boy. “This is around the same place, too–”

“Stop, just…” Techno sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Bring him back. We need to go now, though. The storm’s blowing in.” 

Philza hid a smile. He propped the boy up in the snow, wrapping each arm around his shoulders until he was leaned against Phil’s back, his legs dragging in the snow behind him. Techno looked at the two of them skeptically. 

“I won’t hesitate to kill it if it’s a threat, Philza.” His expression was stoney. He meant it.

“I know,” Philza said, equally as cold. “Let’s get home.”


	3. Awakening

Knowing Phil as long as he had, the man didn’t often surprise Techno, but there were rare exceptions where the indifference and skepticism he had come to embody fell away and Techno was reminded that Philza’s heart was far more gentle than his own. He had a crinkle between his brows, focused and precise as he slowly wound bandages around the burns that speckled the boy’s arms. Every so often, his wings would adjust, feathers ruffling slightly, or he would lean forward to inspect the child’s strange appearance. Yet throughout all of this, his face was gentle, concerned. His hands moved carefully and methodically, a learned skill to his movements that was, Techno would admit, a bit mesmerising. He hadn’t seen Philza look so tender in a long time. 

“I can’t figure it out,” Philza said, leaning back from where he sat next to the boy. He placed the remaining bandages on the side table next to him, the soft cotton unrolling slightly, and leaned his head back to glance at Techno. Techno raised an eyebrow. “His hybrid. I can’t figure it out.” 

Techno gave the boy another once over. In his head, he’d been noting each new piece of information he gathered. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was unbearably curious as well. The boy was laid on the couch in the lower level of Phil’s cabin, but he hardly fit, his feet hanging over the far end. He was tall, lanky, far more thin than he probably should have been. His fingers were long and thin, with sharp nails, but they were recognizably human. His skin was soft, somewhere between scaly and leathery, flecked with patches of purple on his darker side and light pinks and blues on his lighter side, and in certain lights these flecks seemed almost iridescent. The split in his skin colors was baffling in and of itself. 

Among the flecks of color, he was also speckled with burns, some small, slightly paler or darker in color, reminding Techno of the little burns he got when hot oil splashed from the pans while he was cooking. But some were harsh, deep red burns, gathered around the collar of his shirt and his torso. This had confused him and Phil both when they’d begun dressing his wounds, but they quickly found the cause. 

Phil had tried to clean the blood from his temple with a wet rag, but the moment the water touched his skin, it began to burn immediately, becoming raised and irritated. Where the water dripped down to his neck, it left a trail of red skin in its wake. Philza was nothing if not an improviser, and he quickly found a solution mixing netherwart with magma cream to make a paste and wiping the boy’s wounds with a bit of oil instead of water just to get rid of the purple blood streaks. 

The child slept through all of this, hardly stirring for even a moment. Rarely, in his sleep, he made a low noise in his throat like a chirp, but that was the extent of it. His face looked so different while he slept from the unease he had expressed when he stood in the forest. Then, Techno couldn’t focus on much more than the sound he made and the piercing color of his eyes. He had seemed sharp with fear then. But sleep made everyone seem peaceful, and he was no exception. He had gentle features despite the hardness of his jaw and high cheekbones, cheeks soft, long eyelashes, freckles of color bridging his nose. His hair was messy, split in color just like his skin, long enough to cover his forehead. His ears hung down like a lamb’s, further contributing to the softness he now projected.

Techno’s list cycled on repeat in his head, slowly accumulating more information which served to get him no closer to any answer;  _ scaled skin, half black, half white, burnt by water, one red eye, one green, long tail, lamb ears, claws, tall, inhuman howl…  _ none of this got him anywhere. He was clearly a hybrid, but of what, Techno had no idea. He’d never encountered a creature like this. Hybrids were usually fairly easy to identify, despite their rarity. Their features almost always gave them away. Techno didn’t have to do much soul searching to realize he was a Piglin hybrid. Philza’s wings gave him away as a Phantom hybrid from a mile away. He’d seen a Creeper hybrid with speckled green skin and dark eyes, a Blaze hybrid with fiery orange hair. He’d even seen a photo once in an old book of a Zombie hybrid, which was a thoroughly unsettling creature. Despite all that, this boy was a mystery. 

“I though maybe Ghast at first, from the white… I don’t even know if that’s possible…” Phil wondered aloud. “But that feels like a stretch. The tail… and the ears?”

“Wither?” Techno posited. “Could explain the black skin. And how boney he is.”

“I think he’s just malnourished, mate.” Techno huffed. 

“Even then, it still just doesn’t seem right.” 

“Eh… cat?” Philza looked back at him, then to the kid, then back at him.

“Eh.” 

“It’s usually not this much of a mystery,” Techno sighed. “I don’t like riddles–” Technoblade was interrupted by a chirp that cut through his thoughts, like a bell in his head. Philza had clearly heard it too by the way he jumped at the sound. They both turned to see the boy with his eyes now wide and dazed. He began to sit upright, that same low moan building in his throat. The sound was odd now what Techno watched him make it. He didn’t open his mouth. It was as if it was coming from his chest, broadcasted rather than spoken. Philza stood and carefully backed away. They hadn’t yet seen the child act aggressively towards them, but the threat of violence was better taken seriously than dismissed if one valued his own life these days. 

As Philza backed off, the noise died back down, but the child’s eyes remained wide. He sat up slowly, tearing his eyes away from Techno and Phil for only a split second at a time to dart around and take in his surroundings. The two of them both took care not to make direct eye contact. Philza had told Techno afterwards how he felt frozen in place, not physically, but sheerly out of being startled by how piercing his gaze was. Not only that, but it clearly made the child afraid, or potentially aggravated. In either case, neither of them intended to find out the consequence of this boy getting to the peak of his building howls. 

“Hey, mate–” Philza started, but cut himself short when the boy snapped his head toward him with such speed that it almost made Techno jump, too. Philza held his palms up toward him, attempting to diffuse the tension. “You’re alright,” he said softly. “See?” He gestured gently to the space they were in. In Philza’s defence, the cabin was the furthest thing from intimidating. The couch was covered in soft pillows and woven blankets, each wall thoroughly decked out in framed items and hanging artifacts he’d found in his many years of traveling and exploring, a warm fireplace crackling in the corner at almost all times. It was warm, comfortable. Techno enjoyed spending time here, and considering how much he valued his own space, that was an impressive testament to Philza’s ability to make a house feel like home. 

After a long pause, the boy reluctantly pulled his gaze from Philza and glanced around the space. Techno could see him trying to process his surroundings, trying to figure out exactly what was going on. He knew that feeling. 

Eventually, his eyes came to settle on the front door on the other side of the room, next to the kitchen. He slowly began coiling like a spring, tension building as he stared longingly at this chance to escape. 

“I wouldn’t,” Philza said quietly. The boy’s gaze didn’t shift. “There’s a storm outside. You’ll be buried in an hour, if you don’t freeze first.” He held his focus, but swallowed hard. Philza had put it far more gently than Techno would have. To put it bluntly, he was trapped here. To leave would mean death. “You’ll be safe here.” 

The tension slowly left the child’s body. His shoulders sagged, gaze becoming less sharp, more unsteady. Defeated. He let his eyes fall from the door, glancing half heartedly around the room until he found a new fixation on his hands where they rested in his lap, fingers twitching slightly. No longer focused rigidly, his eyes began to shake side to side, trembling in an odd way Techno had never seen before. He wondered how it was possible to see clearly that way, but of course, he said nothing. 

“Do you have a name? Something we can call you by?” Philza’s question was met by silence. He glanced back at Techno, who gave a shrug. Talking wasn’t exactly his strong suit. “Are you hungry?” Nothing. “I’ve got stew on the stove, it’ll be ready soon…” Not even a chirp. 

It seemed like all the fight had been taken out of the boy as soon as escape had been cut from the equation. All that was left was a shell. Techno wondered what he was thinking about, if his thoughts were racing, jumbled, scattered? Or was his mind as blank as his expression? 

“I’ll bring some over. You can have it if you’d like, up to you,” Phil said gently, backing off slowly before turning to walk back toward the kitchen. Techno retreated as well, suddenly uncertain of how to behave when left as the closest presence to the kid. He walked to the front entrance, pulling some logs from the stack of firewood there and trudging back over to stoke the fire. He had expected some reaction as he came closer, even a glance in his direction, but the boy made no acknowledgement that he was even there. He placed a log on the flames and nudged it with the poker, sending a few smouldering embers into the air. In the kitchen, there were the soft thuds of wooden utensils and bowls being set on the counter, a soft bubbling emerging as the stew came to a boil. Outside, the wind howled.

Philza and Technoblade often operated in silence around each other. Both were often enveloped in their own tasks, Phil often crafting something or organizing his stocks, Techno reading or sharpening some tool. They didn’t feel the need to fill the space between them with meaningless small talk, and besides, there wasn’t much for one to say that the other didn’t already know. But now, that silence felt so strange, hanging in the air like it was a brand new sound in and of itself, punctuated by another presence. It felt different, silence occupied by silence where there should simply be nothing. Techno didn’t know how to put it into words that made sense. 

When dinner was finished cooking, Phil brought over a bowl to place on the side table next to the spot where the boy sat. He had pulled his long legs up, hugging them loosely to his chest with his chin resting on his knees. He stared out the window into the storm, a wall of white snow whipping past the window fast enough that it was almost like looking at a still image. When Phil set the bowl down, it elicited no reaction. The boy didn’t move to reach for it, nor did he even note it had been put there at all.

There it remained for the rest of the night, until Phil took it back to pour into the pot and store so it didn’t go bad. He’d try again the next day, setting out roasted pork and vegetables from breakfast or bread and cheese, the next day a mug of milk or some fruit, the day after a roasted potato or even his beloved pumpkin pastries. None of it was touched. The boy sat in place, staring out the window, motionless like a statue. When he slept, he slept in the same spot, in the same position, eyes half lidded like he was always at least partially looking out for something even in rest.

Only in his sleep did he make a sound, that same soft chirp that crept from his throat and snuck into sound when no one was watching. It filled the dark silence of night, louder in their heads than the roar of the wind outside, but still so quiet they could hardly tell it had happened at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll note it once here just in case; this is a work of fiction, written exclusively about the characters portrayed in the fictional universe of the Dream SMP and NOT about the content creators themselves! Thanks!


	4. Forget Me Not

There were times when he couldn’t tell if the snow was so high it was covering the window, or if it was simply whipping past so fast in the wind that the world outside appeared to be a sheet of white. It was mesmerising to watch. Every so often, glimpses of the sky or the landscape beyond the storm would peak through the blizzard. He would see streaks of the trees, or of the barns that laid at the edge of the lake. He would squint past the snow to try to catch sight of the world outside, trying idly to piece together what this landscape looked like. 

Ever since he woke up, time seemed to pass strangely. Sometimes, his thoughts would race, desperately searching for some connection between events, some timeline to put his memories into, some clue as to where he was or what he was doing here. He would remember the snow, the forest, the man with the wings and the man with pink skin. The voice. 

The voice?

The memory only lingered for a moment, and then it was gone, lost in a spiral of thoughts that wound and wound and flooded through his thoughts like rain. Like a snow storm. It felt like an infinite loop, like he had spent days sitting here thinking in still silence. 

And then he would blink and realize that no one had moved, that he hadn’t taken his next breath yet, that the fire was still licking away at the same log. That no time had passed at all. 

He hated this. But what he hated more were the opposite moments, in which it took hours to complete one single thought, where day and night would come and go and his mind was still processing one single idea, one word, one feeling. 

Every so often, he was vaguely aware of someone speaking. Whether or not it was directed at him, he didn’t know, but the voices were low and soft. They weren’t disorienting like his thoughts were. He knew one of them came and spoke to him, set down food for him. It had gentle hands that guided soft gauze around his arms, and when it came, his skin didn’t burn like fire. 

Slowly, things began to balance themselves out. He didn’t know how much time had passed. He began to move, and it felt as though he was a statue awakening from sleep, stiff and unnatural, and when he began to finally feel grounded again, the feeling was addictive. He felt like been buried, clawing his way out to emerge for air. 

Waking up felt cold. 

When he breathed, it caught in his throat, and suddenly the world felt real again. It had color. It had movement. Where the fire flicked to his right, he felt warmth. Cold air drifted off from the window, slivers of wind seeping through the cracks. There was a sting at his left shoulder, and he flinched from it, turning to find himself face to face with someone familiar. 

The man froze, staring back at him, a strange silence drawing on between them, before he drew his hand back from where it rested on his shoulder. 

“Did that hurt?” the man asked gently. “Sorry,” he said. In his hand, he held a handful of gauzy fabric, glistening with an orangey red sheen, and he lowered it slowly, folding the cloth over in his hand. “It’s helping the burns,” he explained. The man was waiting for something, but he couldn’t tell what. 

He remembered this person. He had soft eyes. 

“I need to finish,” the man said, holding the gauze up slightly. “If that’s alright?” He couldn’t make himself move again. His neck felt stiff and heavy, and his eyes dropped without him intending them to. He hated feeling so disoriented. The man brought his hand up slowly, as if not to startle him. The stinging in his neck was subsiding, thankfully. The man finished, loosely wrapping some of the fabric around the base of his neck and tucking it under his shirt collar. He leaned back where he sat on the small wooden table beside him and sighed, wiping his hands on his pants. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

The words left his mouth without him even realizing he had spoken. Without intending to speak. The man looked up, and they both sat in silence for a moment, equally startled that he had spoken. He felt fear building in his chest, but he had no idea why. Anticipation, maybe. What came next? What now?

After a long pause where the man seemed to be debating how to respond, he finally spoke. 

“Of course.” He wiped one hand on his leg again. “Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten in a while.” Perhaps that was the discomfort he had been feeling in his stomach. A constant nausea had been with him since he began regaining control of himself, and now it made sense. He nodded. The man smiled kindly and stood, walking across the room to the kitchen. 

“Do you, ah. Do you have a name?” He vaguely remembered being asked this before, unable to answer, unable to form words. He wondered if he could summon forth his voice this time. He looked over to the man, expecting him to be staring, awaiting his answer, but he simple walked around the kitchen, picking up a bowl, a ladle, a spoon. His wings were folded neatly, black feathers catching the light from the lamps and the fire. By the kitchen, there was a door. He didn’t know why, but it felt important to note. 

He swallowed, and spoke.

“Ranboo,” he said. His voice was quiet, and his throat was scratchy, but even so, the man turned to glance at him and smiled again.

“Ranboo?” He nodded. “I like that name,” he said. “Warm stew or cold? It’ll take a minute to heat.” 

“Cold,” Ranboo answered. 

The sooner he ate, the sooner this feeling would leave him. The man nodded, ladling stew into the wooden bowl and making his way back over to where Ranboo sat. He passed the bowl over, and Ranboo reached out to take it. As he did, he couldn’t help but realize how much longer his own fingers were than the man. Not only that, his hands were speckled with little spots of red, almost-healed burns. 

“Thank you,” he said, beginning to spoon the stew into his dry mouth. It was savory, creamy with mushrooms and carrots. Even cold, it was delicious.

“Sure.” After a few moments of Ranboo quickly scooping the food into his mouth, the man spoke again. “I’m Philza,” he said. “Or Phil, if you’d like.” The name felt familiar. The polite thing would have been to respond, to say _nice to meet you._ _Thank you for helping me._ But with each spoonful of stew he had, he realized more and more how hungry he was. 

His stomach would ache more despite being filled, each bite simultaneously satiating that hunger and encouraging it further. He couldn’t get enough. He brought the bowl to his lips and tipped it up, gulping down the salty liquid without bothering to chew the chunks of mushrooms and vegetables that passed his lips. 

When he got to the bottom of the bowl, he let his hands drop back down and breathed out, wiping the corner of his mouth with one thumb. He looked up to find Philza watching him. 

“I thought you’d be hungry,” he said. He held out his hand, and Ranboo passed back the bowl. “You haven’t eaten for a few days.” 

“Days?” Philza nodded as he poured more stew into the bowl, filling it higher this time. He took a large mug from the shelf above him and filled it with water from a pitcher sitting by the window, as well as a half-loaf of bread, and brought it all back.

“Thank you,” Ranboo said again.

“Don’t eat too fast, it’ll only make you feel worse,” Philza warned. Ranboo nodded. With the pangs of hunger subsiding, he ate slower, quenching his thirst and dunking the bread into the stew to slow himself down a bit. Philza watched him eat for a few minutes before speaking again.

“I’ll come right out and ask it, mate. What happened?” Ranboo looked up from his food, looking to Philza’s face, but not quite meeting his gaze. “You were in quite a state. And there’s nothing around here for miles…” He blinked, swallowing, before shaking his head slightly. 

“I don’t, um,” he started, but didn’t know where to go from there. He told the truth. “I don’t remember.”

“Nothing at all? Where did you come from? Where’s your family?”

“I don’t remember,” he said again. Philza looked confused.

“What about before? It’s just… nothing?” 

“Not… not nothing…” Ranboo said. Concern was broadcasted clearly on his face. But even though he was clearly shocked by this amnesia, it felt natural to Ranboo. It didn’t seem new, not to remember. Forgetting was familiar. He understood the world. He knew what it was to live here, what it was to walk and talk, to cook food, to light a fire. Life felt familiar, but he just didn’t have a place to anchor himself in it. There was nothing to ground him. “I don’t know how to explain it.” It was like floating.

“You don’t… okay…” Ranboo had another spoonful of soup. “You don’t seem concerned by that.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess– I dunno. It feels normal.” 

“Normal?” He nodded. “That makes things a bit more difficult.” 

“Yeah,” he said again. He was right. There was an ever looming question of  _ what comes next _ hanging over their heads like a rain cloud. How could he get home if he didn’t remember where he came from? At least for now it seemed a question that could be delayed. With the storm still howling outside, he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. That thought was half comforting, half concerning.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” He considered this question, furrowing his brow.

“Before this? Um…” What did he remember? “Snow, trees… somewhere cold, I think, maybe a cave? And then I was moving... my feet hurt. I remember my feet hurt. I think–” His stomach lurched as a memory of fear came flooding back to him. He had been running. Running somewhere… no. He remembered fear, desperation, his feet burning. Running from  _ something _ . He didn’t remember what _. _

A dull panic began to rise in his throat. He took a gulp of water to force it back down, hoping maybe Philza hadn’t noticed, but a new tremor in his hand gave it away. 

“You think what?” Every time Philza spoke, his voice was so much more gentle than Ranboo was expecting. Even so, he felt for some reason that this was something he couldn’t say. Something he shouldn’t say, like a secret someone else had given him to protect. But there was no one else here. Unintentionally, Ranboo’s gaze was drawn back to the door by the kitchen, watching for something. Waiting. 

“Something must have brought you here,” Philza said. “No one just walks off into the tundra. Not without a death wish.” Ranboo looked back to him. He was trying to help. Ranboo knew he was just trying to help. So why did telling him this one detail feel like pulling teeth? He unclenched his jaw, loosened his grip on the mug.

“I was running,” he admitted. When he said it, it felt like the world was lifted off of him. Why did everything feel so  _ heavy. _ Philza’s reaction was neutral, calm. Ranboo was grateful for that. 

“From what?” Ranboo looked down to his food again.

“I don’t remember,” he said again. He dunked his bread back into the stew and took another bite. Philza didn’t ask any more questions. “How–” he didn’t know how to phrase what he wanted to ask. “What did um… how did you find me?” 

“Well, Techno found you actually,” Philza said. 

“Techno?”

“Oh, right…” Philza looked up to the second floor, drawing Ranboo’s gaze up too. Above the living room was a second story to the cabin, a small landing with a railing and two doors. “He’s either sleeping or reading. You’ll meet him eventually. He’s a bit of a shut in, honestly.” 

“Oh,” Ranboo said softly. 

“You were standing in the woods making this sound. Like a howl. But that was… I mean, that was it.”

“I was just standing there?” 

“I mean, you were freaking out a bit. But yeah. Just standing in the snow, uh. Screaming.” 

“Oh.” He took another bite of bread. This felt like a riddle he’d never be able to solve, a puzzle with half of the pieces. Maybe his dejection and frustration was showing on his face, because Philza stood, taking the now empty bowl from Ranboo’s hands and patting him lightly on the shoulder. 

“We’ll figure this out,” he said. “Don’t worry. At least you’ve got a name.” Ranboo shied away from the touch, uncertain, but the words were comforting nonetheless. As Philza washed the bowl out in the kitchen sink, Ranboo tucked one leg underneath him, pulling his other up to his chest, and rested his chin against his knee. He looked down at the mug in his hand, swirling the water around. The question repeated in his head, looping endlessly;  _ what comes next? _

One floor up, Technoblade sat on the ground of Philza’s second bedroom, he back against the door, listening. Something was off about this. He didn’t know what… but something. 


End file.
